“Of course.”

Kate leaned down and tucked her head beneath the chair. “A fraction higher?” Kate asked, watching the drilled hole until Tilly lifted the kneeler high enough between Kate’s legs so that the holes were lined up to fit the screw. “There,” Kate murmured. “That’s perfect.”

“How did you go with the phone calls this morning?” Tilly asked softly.

Kate worked the screwdriver. “Spoke to all bar Emma’s mum. I left a message, but I’m still trying to get a hold of her.”

“I wanted to ask you about it at lunch, but I couldn’t find you—you weren’t in the staffroom with everybody else.”

“I’m rarely in the staffroom at lunch—I prefer my office in the boarding house.”

“But everybody eats in the staffroom.”

“Not everybody. Clarissa eats in her science rooms, and legend has it that Marielle hasn’t left the art room for lunch in seven years.”

Kate focused for a moment on fitting the screw into place. “You’re quite the handyman,” Tilly remarked.

“Handywoman.”

“Well, I was going to say handylady,” Tilly played, “but I’ve been told such language isn’t permitted at this school. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but apparently there’s a staff member here who is quite the staunch feminist.”

Kate grinned as she tightened the screw. “Now, that couldn’t be the same teacher roaming the grounds handing out uniform infringements, could it?”

“Oh no. I hear the two women are quite different.”

Kate shrugged as she got to her knees. She sat beside Tilly on the seat. “I don’t know about that…”

Kate lowered her glasses from the crown of her head and appraised Tilly. The corners of Tilly’s mouth twitched, the creases beside her eyes all the more noticeable for it. Tilly seemed to be searching her gaze for something. Kate tilted her head in question.

“Your glasses are dirty,” Tilly explained.

“Oh, they’re always…” Kate faded out as Tilly grinned, reaching up to pull the plastic arms from behind Kate’s ears. Kate’s vision adjusted again as she watched Tilly buff the lenses on the polka-dotted skirt of her pale-blue dress.

Kate admired the way the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window played across Tilly’s face. The reds and blues of St. Joan before battle danced in Tilly’s hair, on her nose, the shell of her ear. Tilly handed her glasses back. “There you go.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes dropped to Tilly’s lips. It was easy to remember how they’d felt against her own, that soft, timid give and take that had come so naturally. Three times they’d snuck up to the belltower at night. Three times knowing that what they were doing was risky, that their decisions were heavy with meaning. Just three times. Did Tilly think about it?

Tilly reached out and pinched the cuff of Kate’s shirt, rolled up to her elbows. Her fingertips brushed against the hairs on Kate’s forearms.

Skin tingling, Kate adjusted her glasses. “What?”

Tilly’s breath was warm on the line of her jaw. “Why do you dress like this?”